“It is. The firepower is for those who might try to prevent us from doing that.”
Charley didn’t like guns. Neither did the rest of the Old Boys. In our day gunfire was regarded as the sound of inexcusable failure. The mission back then was to tiptoe in and tiptoe out, leaving no one the wiser. The adversary (never rudely called the enemy) wasn’t supposed to find out what you’d done to him until it was too late, if ever.
“I have no idea where to find this stuff or what it costs,” Charley said. For once he wasn’t the smiling volunteer.
“Kevin will take care of all that,” I said. “It will be cheaper than you think. Figure fifty grand up front, not including vehicles.”
“If it’s all the same to you,” Charley said. “I’d rather not know.”
“But you do know,” Jack Philindros said. “Don’t be such a liberal, Charley.”
Jack was now fully on board. So was Ben. Washington etiquette applied. After the decision is made, the time for criticism is past. You support the plan or resign and keep your mouth shut. This didn’t mean that the worrywarts weren’t nervous about the ad hoc nature of my plan. Improvisation didn’t come easily to either of them. But in the absence of a cast of thousands, improvisation was our only option. Neither spoke the thought that was uppermost in both their minds: By involving Kevin we were opening the gates of Troy to a wooden horse. Who knew what and who might be inside it? This was a risk, no question about it. But how refreshing of Jack and Ben not to point that out to the rest of us, who already knew it. The others, needless to say, were all in favor of the rousing game of dirty tricks that lay ahead. They hadn’t had this much fun in years.
We were back in Italy—this time in Florence, in a different apartment near the Ponte Vecchio. This place was far more elegant than the walk-up in Rome and much farther removed, thank goodness, from church bells. After the Restaurante Mexicano, I needed a good dinner, so I did as Disraeli used to do when he wanted to read a good novel. I cooked one. Prosciutto and asparagus, spaghetti with clams, a whole roasted sea bass, and more Tuscan wine than was good for the old pipes inside the assembled company. Harley proposed a toast.
“To the life in the Old Boys yet,” he said.
Everyone drank to that. But it was late. Quite soon the conversation stalled, the laughter dwindled. Charley and I did the dishes. The rest were all in bed by ten. Sometime during the night I woke up from a dream. Every single one of the Old Boys was snoring—tenors, baritones, an “Old Man River” bass. On a still night in the desert, with the constellations wheeling overhead, these old fellows could have been heard for miles.
In the morning we scattered, each to his own task. David Wong and I headed east, toward Xinjiang.
3
We met Zarah in Karakol, close to the Chinese frontier with Kyrgyzstan. The three of us breakfasted on tea and yogurt in the tiny dining room of the guest house where we were staying. Men in peculiar felt hats, shouting at each other in Kyrgyz, filled the other tables. The smell of dung fires permeated their clothes and this pungent odor mixed with the aroma of the warm sheep’s milk they were drinking and the smell of horses and wet fleece and their own bodies. The guest house was badly out of plumb. Slivers of daylight shone through its window frames and door jambs. You could imagine its being built long ago by people with fingers numbed by cold who lacked all but the most primitive tools. Through its isinglass windows we had a smeared view of the Ala Tau Mountains, snow-clad peaks pink in the early light. American eyes had not beheld such a sight and lived to tell the tale in my lifetime—until recently. Now all you had to do to visit places that had been forbidden to outsiders for three generations was click a few computer keys and take a plane. In summer these mountains crawled with American and European backpackers. Capitalism! How right the apparatchiks had been to fear it.
I told Zarah about Kalash, about Mubarak’s GPS readings, about Charley’s research.
“Then Ibn Awad is a falconer.”
“So it would seem, unless we’re being set up. To the suspicious mind it all fits together a little too neatly.”
Zarah gave me a wry look. She said, “A man I know is a dealer in contraband falcons. He says that the falcon of choice for hunting the houbara bustard is not the peregrine but the Saker falcon.”
“And why is that?”
“The Saker is larger than the peregrine, with a much broader wingspan,” Zarah said. “It lacks the peregrine’s big talons but it has an uncanny ability to fly very low to the ground. This means that it finds the houbara bustard on its own, chases it when it runs and flushes it into the air, where it finishes it off. Because of its smaller talons it does much less damage to the carcass when it kills than the peregrine. This is important if you’re going to eat the houbara.”
“And?”
“It’s an endangered species,” Zarah said. “Because of its rarity, the Saker falcon is coveted by Arab falconers. Sakers come in all colors from dark brown to blond, from ash to white. White is the rarest color.”
“It must be difficult to find one.”
“Very. Also illegal. But not impossible. A pure white, wild female Saker falcon could be worth up to a hundred thousand dollars.”
I said, “Let me guess. Your friend knows where you can buy one.”
“Yes. A pure white female. It’s in a village not far from here.”
“I’d love to see it. But what are we going to do with a pure white wild female Saker falcon?”
“I thought it would make a nice present for Ibn Awad,” Zarah replied. “Something that would catch his eye, bring him to us.”
After breakfast David Wong went off to find a Kyrgyz friend who would drive us to the village where the Saker falcon and its owner awaited. The Kyrgyz friend turned out to be Askar, the revolutionary we had met in the Tajik village after the buz kashi, the man who had told us that Lori had been living among the Kyrgyz. He was the same jovial customer as before, full of patriotic fervor, glowing with heroic reputation. He knew exactly who Zarah was, and after telling her how much she looked like her grandmother, he recited his entire genealogy.
“My grandfather and your great-grandfather were first cousins,” he told Zarah. To me he said, “Zarah is your first cousin’s child. So you and I are cousins, too.”
In my case the blood-tie was honorary, but this was a moment that called for a gesture. I offered my hand. Askar took it and very nearly crushed its bones.
Askar and David had arrived in a Subaru pickup truck. Zarah and David rode in the cab with Askar. For the sake of the legroom I chose to ride in the truck bed. This was an unwise decision. The combination of Askar’s driving—he could have gotten work as a stunt man in Hollywood—and the road, built to the most dismal collectivist standards, made me regret it before we had traveled a mile. It was very cold. Snowflakes swirled in the vortex of the truck’s passage.
The village, when at last we reached it, turned out to be a collection of stone huts huddled against a mountainside. Just above the jumble of houses, a hot spring bubbled from the rocks, giving off wisps out of steam. Askar told us that there were caves nearby where, in the good old days, he and his men had hidden after raids into China. During the struggle to unite the Kyrgyz people the village had been a nest of lookouts, warning Askar and his partisans of approaching Russians. And what had Askar and his men done when Soviets troops came looking for them?
“We crossed the mountains into Xinjiang and hid in different caves on the other side,” he said. “The Han and the Muscovites never told each other anything.”
Askar knew everyone in the village, of course. He was given a celebrity’s welcome. We were included in it—or at least David and I were. Zarah, her pedigree having been explained by Askar, was swept away by the women like a long-lost sister. In the headman’s house, we men were offered fermented mare’s milk. I was happy to have it. It made my body feel less sore, and while I can’t say I preferred it to scotch whiskey, it did have a nice malty taste. The headman assured us th
at although a lot of vodka was still drunk in free Kyrgyzstan, fermented mare’s milk was the true national drink. This was proved by the fact that the nation’s capital, Bishkek, was named for the churn in which mare’s milk is fermented.
It was late afternoon before the tide of hospitality had subsided enough for business to be done. Zarah had not disappeared. She was simply hanging out with the rest of the females in the kitchen. Judging by the laughter in that room and the shiny smiling faces of the women who brought our food and drink, the ladies were enjoying her company.
When at last we were taken to the Saker falcon it became evident that Zarah’s position as Lori’s granddaughter was an asset. Lori—or Kerzira, as the Kyrgyz called her—had dealt with men on her own terms. Everyone seemed to expect Zarah to do the same. The Saker falcon was kept in a cave farther up the mountainside—actually in a sort of alcove deep inside the cave itself. Zarah insisted on going in alone with a candle. She remained inside for maybe fifteen minutes. It seemed longer to me, doubled up as I was beneath the low rock ceiling, and even longer than that to the falcon’s keepers. Cousin or not, foreigner or not, Kerzira’s granddaughter or not, Zarah was a woman. Women and falcons did not mix. Glances were exchanged, words muttered. Resentment simmered. Apprehension mounted. Who knew what harm this foreign female might be doing to a creature that was worth more in cash money than the combined life’s income of everyone in the village? And who could be sure that she wasn’t a spy for crazy foreigners who might show up with the police to rescue the bird, thus making the head policeman’s fortune and getting everyone in this cave sent to jail?
At last Zarah emerged from the darkness into the smoky lantern light of the outer cave. The village headman, a fellow named Turdahun, lifted her hand and sniffed it. This was a strange liberty, I thought, but Zarah permitted it without complaint. Turdahun was just checking to see if she had touched the bird. Apparently she had not, because Turdahun made no complaint, either. I don’t know whether this was Kyrgyz etiquette or the language barrier or some sort of tongue-tied reaction to this strange woman who had come out of nowhere like her grandmother, but in any case, mum was the word.
Fortunately, Askar was on the scene. Speaking pidgin Arabic to Zarah and rain-on-the-roof Kyrgyz to the other parties, he took over the negotiations. From his point of view and that of the villagers, this was the natural order of things. He was Zarah’s male relative. Naturally he would speak for her, protect her, get her what she wanted at the fairest possible price. While most of the men in the village watched from the sidelines, Askar and Turdahun sat on a rug and drank tea and bargained, whispering to each other’s ears when they came into important points. This went on for several hours. At some point the fermented mare’s milk and the warmth of the dung fire put me to sleep. When I woke, the bargain had been struck. Askar had obtained the Saker falcon for three thousand grams of gold, or about $35,000, one-fourth the original asking price.
The gold was ceremoniously weighed in the presence of witnesses. To my surprise, Zarah had brought it with her in small ingots; like an indulgent father, I had assumed that I was going to pay for it. The bargain struck, the gold paid, we ate again (more mutton) and drank the excellent Russian vodka that David had brought. By now it was too late to leave, so we spent the night.
4
There was no question of oversleeping. Turdahun’s entire household was up at dawn. Women rattled pans, men shouted, sheep bleated. I wandered outside and came upon two boys milking ewes. One of the lads offered me a saucer of milk straight from the udder. I was about as much interested in drinking it on top of fermented mare’s milk and vodka as I would have been in eating the sheep’s eyes. I drank it down anyway to be polite and said the Kyrgyz word for thank-you.
I wandered up to the hot spring and washed my face. The sulfurous water smelled faintly of rotten eggs, but it was truly hot, about the temperature of a Japanese bath. From the look and smell of the villagers, they did not often take advantage of the bubbling waters. After my ride in Askar’s pickup and a night twisted into a pretzel on a very short sleeping pallet, I would have been glad to sink into the steaming spring and soak my weary bones, but at this moment my telephone vibrated. The instrument quivered three or four more times before I identified the source of the annoyance and dug beneath my parka and sweater to find it.
Playing the man who had nothing to hide, I barked, “Horace here!”
I was expecting to hear an Old Boy on the line—Charley with a bulletin from outer space or Jack or Ben or Harley with another kind of helpful hint. Instead I heard a voice I did not know. In my befuddled state I thought for a moment that someone had gotten a wrong number. But then I realized that the caller, who was speaking a kind of denatured English—grammatical but lacking any kind of emphasis—must be Chinese. His voice was reedy, faint, apprehensive, as if its owner had been hoping that he would get my voice mail instead of me. The sound of my name, spoken aloud into the ears of whoever was monitoring this call, had spooked him. I could understand why.
His silence was so complete that I thought for a moment that the line had gone dead. Then he said, “Ah! I have reached you.”
In the background I could hear Chinese musical instruments, drums and reeds. Also the noise of a crowd. He must be having trouble hearing me. And why was he making a clandestine phone call from the middle of what sounded like a Chinese funeral?
Raising my voice, I said, “Yes, and I’m very glad, too. I’m interested in a backpacking trip into the mountains and I hope that your travel agency can help me with this.”
It took the caller a long moment to understand this doubletalk. Then he caught on. His voice became a little stronger.
“Perhaps we can be of service,” he said. “Though of course you must obtain the necessary permissions from the authorities.”
“I understand. Let me ask you this. Can you offer references?”
My disused Outfit mind was beginning to work again, albeit sluggishly. It is no simple matter to beat around the bush in this way and still get your message across to someone who learned English from Chinese instructors in an academy in remotest Manchuria.
Ze said, “References?”
I said, “That’s right, references. I’d like to speak to someone who has used your services. I have in mind one man in particular.”
Another long silence as he processed this information. When at last he spoke, his volume went up another click. Maybe he was beginning to enjoy this game.
“Some time ago I had many conversations with an interesting man,” he said. “Perhaps he would do.”
“I see. And did you find him a good conversationalist?”
“I found him to be perfectly truthful.”
The caller could be none other than Ze Keli, Paul’s old interrogator. I was sure of it.
I said, “Have you kept in touch with this client?”
“I have seen him quite recently.”
“Did you find him well?”
“He was happy to be with his mother and his brother.”
“Can they come to the phone now?”
“Sorry. They are nearby but that is not possible at the moment.”
“Then perhaps you and I can meet. I, too, am quite nearby.”
There was a burst of noise on the line. It sounded like the burp of a submachine gun.
“What was that?” I asked.
“Firecrackers,” the man said. “A wedding is taking place. Don’t be apprehensive, please. How close are you, exactly?”
Ze had hidden himself in a wedding procession to make this phone call. Clever fellow—just another Chinese walking down the street in a merry procession with his cell phone pressed to his ear.
I said, “At the moment I am touring the Silk Road. I’m in the mountains, not far from Karakol.”
“Ah,” he said again. Another pause, more music and firecrackers. Then he said, “Listen carefully. The ots-hay pringsay near the edelbay asspay.”
The what? I said, “S
ay that again, please.”
He repeated the words, if that’s what they were. I dug out a pen and scribbled them on the back of my hand.
“Got it.”
Ze said, “At oon-nay in wotay aysday imetay. “
He broke the connection. I sat down on a rock and stared at the blue ballpoint squiggles the back of my hand.
I heard a commotion and stood up. Below me in the village several men appeared. The first two carried a box that was about the size and shape of an army footlocker turned on end. A dozen more surrounded them. They presented the box to Askar, who stood near his pickup truck, salt-and-pepper beard swept leftward by the breeze, a magnificent vista of mountain and fallow pasture behind him. Zarah stood just behind him, womanly and shy, hands clasped modestly at her waist.
One of the falcon handlers gave Askar something. They were several hundred meters away and I couldn’t quite make out what it was with the naked eye. Askar turned and handed the thing to Zarah. He seemed to be helping her on with it somehow, buckling it to her arm, but his broad body was in the way so I could not make this out, either.
Suddenly Turdahun, the headman, stepped into the frame. He carried the Saker falcon on his right forearm. It really was white. He approached Zarah and transferred the bird to her arm. I understood, rather than saw, that what Askar had given to her was a gauntlet to protect her arm from the falcon’s talons. Asker stepped back. So did all the rest. And there was Zarah, all alone, with the great feathered weapon she had purchased standing hooded and tethered on her arm. This bird was much larger than the peregrine falcons I had seen. I remembered Kalash’s houbara bustard and its telltale shadow.
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